by Jean Plaidy
WHEN HE WAS AGAIN CONSCIOUS, he was lying in his bed, and Bess was in the room, with the doctors, Caldwell and Francis.
The Earl tried to call out but he appeared to have lost his voice; he tried to lift his arm but could not move it.
Bess was beside his bed. “Do not try to move, my dear,” she said gently.
His mouth formed words which he could not utter and she went on: “You have been ill; but you will be all right now. I am going to see to that. The doctors are here. They are very hopeful of your recovery.”
She laid her hand on his brow; it was very cool and it seemed to him as though some of that tremendous vitality of hers flowed into him.
“B . . . Bess . . . ” His lips formed the word and his eyes filled with tears. He felt so weak that he rejoiced in her strength.
“You must rest for some time,” she told him. “Close your eyes now and try to sleep. All will be well in time. I have told the doctors that they are not to leave Wingfield until I am satisfied with your condition.”
He obeyed her, and it seemed that he slept awhile.
IT WAS A WEEK OR SO after his attack before the power of speech returned to the Earl, and although he could move his limbs he was still slightly paralyzed.
Bess rarely left the sickroom; she herself prepared gruels and potions for her husband; she guarded the sickroom and would allow him no visitors except the doctors. With them she was in constant conference, and all agreed that the Earl owed his life to the indefatigable Bess of Hardwick.
When she judged him to be well enough to listen to her plans she sat beside his bed and talked to him.
“My dear,” she said, “you have suffered from inflammation of the brain. The doctors think it is a condition which has been brought on by your anxiety. Your dear captive, by the way, has sent affectionate messages to you every day and insists on hearing of your progress. I am sure that will help you to get well.”
“Why Bess,” he said, “nothing could help me get well more than your loving care.”
Bess laughed. “You do not think I would allow a husband of mine to become an invalid, do you? You are going to get better, I tell you.”
“I feel better.”
“Of course you do. All the time you have been lying on that bed you have not been worrying about the messages which are going to and from your precious captive. You have ceased to think of the charming creature. Let me tell you, George Talbot, that is why your health has improved. There is one thing you need above all others now. That is to leave all this behind and pay a visit to the baths of Buxton. I know that will cure you completely. And I propose to take you there.”
“But what of the Queen . . . .”
“Which? Your Queen or . . . the other? But I forgot they are both your Queens, are they not? Do not fret about the Queen of Scots. She is still here even though you have not been able to guard her. You see, there are others who can carry out the task of jailor as well as the Earl of Shrewsbury. No, my love, you are going to Buxton. I have quite made up my mind to take you there.”
“Do you not remember that, when Knollys’ wife was dying, the Queen would not allow him to visit her?”
“I am not Knollys. I say you are in need of Buxton baths and you are going to have them. I have already written to the Queen, telling her of your state of health and asking for permission to take you to Buxton.”
“And you have had no word?”
“I have had no word . . . although I expected it ere now.”
“Bess, even you will not get consent. She will give the same answer to you as she gave to Knollys.”
Bess’s face hardened suddenly. “You are my husband,” she said, “and it is my duty to cure you. I know that this can be done by a visit to Buxton, and Queen or no Queen, you are going to Buxton.”
He smiled up at her. She seemed invulnerable. But he did not believe they would go to Buxton.
LEONARD DACRE had been a constant caller at Wingfield during the Earl’s illness and, since the Countess was continually occupied with the sickroom, it was not difficult for Dacre to visit the Queen whenever he wished.
Dacre was a very bitter man. He had received no satisfaction regarding his claim to the family fortune, and he was furious contemplating how wily Norfolk had been in marrying his brother’s widow and arranging matches with his nieces, so that he had maneuvered the vast Dacre estate into his greedy hands. Norfolk was—without the Dacre fortune—the richest peer in England. He hated Norfolk.
With the Earl sick and the Countess occupied in nursing him, it had been easy to discover something of the intrigues of the household—a little friendship here, a little bribery there—and he knew that Norfolk was not only anxious to marry the Queen of Scots but that he had already a secret contract with her.
Dacre was going to do his best to stop that marriage.
He knew also that there was another faction in England which was eager to prevent it. This was the Catholic party of the North who were determined that Mary should never marry with Protestant Norfolk. The fact that this party was headed by Dacre’s cousin, the Earl of Northumberland, made it easy for Leonard Dacre to become a member of it; and, since he was on visiting terms with the Queen of Scots, he was in a position to be very useful.
Dacre was determined that Mary should reject Norfolk and agree to the plans of the Northumberland faction, which were that she should make an alliance with Don Jon of Austria, who would come to England and fight for her cause—and not only her cause. There was another, very dear to the hearts of the Catholics of the North—the dethroning of the Protestant Queen whom they looked on as a bastard and no true Queen of England, and the setting up in her place of the Catholic Mary Queen of Scots.
It was while Countess Bess was with her sick husband and preparing to leave for Buxton—for although she had not yet received Elizabeth’s permission she had gone ahead with her preparations—that Dacre called at Wingfield Manor and asked for an audience with the Queen. Mary was working on her tapestry with Seton and Jane Kennedy, and when she received him these two remained with her.
Dacre knew that they were in her confidence and to be trusted, and that if he were alone with the Queen it would give rise to suspicion, so he decided to lay his plan before the three of them.
“I believe, Your Majesty,” he said, “that it would not be difficult for you to leave this prison.”
Mary, who had continued her work, held her needle poised while she looked at Dacre. He noticed the quick color in her cheeks. Talk of escape could always excite her.
“How so?” she asked.
Dacre went on: “I have a perfect plan to lay before you. Do you think that I have not given a great deal of thought to this, nor that I am the only one behind it. Your Majesty, not far from this place armed men are waiting to help you. You have only to escape from this manor, gallop a few miles, and you will be with them. They are ready to put hundreds of men in the field to fight for you.”
“You mean . . . Norfolk?”
Dacre could not help the note of anger creeping into his voice. “I mean my cousin Northumberland.”
“Ah yes,” said Mary quietly.
“You know that he is working for you. He has the Pope and the King of Spain behind him.”
“They are too ambitious,” said Mary. “They want to give me not only Scotland but England. I can be content with Scotland.”
“They will meet your wishes in every way. Westmorland is with Northumberland. They cannot fail. But first they wish for your release. Once you are free, every Catholic in England will demand that you be given your rights. Your throne will be yours once more.”
“And how do you propose to bring about my release?”
“Since the sickness of the Earl, rules have become a little lax at Wingfield Manor.”
“It’s true,” Mary agreed.
“I have not been idle. I have made friends among the guards and servants here. I do not think it would be a major task for you to walk out of this Manor in
the dress of one of your women.”
Mary looked at Seton and Jane Kennedy who were sitting tense, their needles held above the canvas, and she knew they were as excited as she was.
“It would be Lochleven all over again,” Mary murmured.
“It was done there,” said Dacre. “It can be done here. Only here you have more friends to help you. I tell you, we cannot fail.”
He looked across at Seton. “The Queen could wear a headdress like yours. She could wear your gown and cloak. You could wear hers. You could be seen together in the great hall . . . and the Queen—in your gown, in your cloak—could walk out, leaving you in her clothes in the hall.” He turned to Jane Kennedy. “You could be there also, talking as you would talk to the Queen, addressing her as ‘Your Majesty’ . . . and so you two could walk back to these apartments while the Queen walked out of the Manor . . . out to the horses which would be waiting for her. The deception could be kept up for hours . . . perhaps a day or more. It would not be so difficult, particularly if the Earl and Countess should leave for Buxton.”
“But if they left,” said Seton, “someone would surely be sent to take their places. And a new jailor would most certainly be watchful.”
“It must happen before the new man arrives,” declared Dacre.
“In that case,” said Jane, “before the Shrewsburys leave.”
“If necessary. But they will be busy with their preparation. There could not be a better moment to put this plan into action. What does Your Majesty say?”
“I will think of it.”
“There must be no delay.”
“I shall give you my answer within a few days.”
Dacre was excited. She would agree. There was nothing she longed for so much as escape. This would be the end of Norfolk’s ambition to marry the Queen. He would learn what it cost to meddle in the affairs of the Dacres.
As for Northumberland and Westmorland, they chafed against delay. But he would be able to tell them that the Queen liked the plan.
In a short time the Catholics of the North would be in revolt against the Protestant Queen of England.
AS SOON AS DACRE had gone, Mary put aside her tapestry.
“What does Your Majesty think of the plan?” asked Seton.
“It is a good one. You know, Seton, you and I are of the same height. If you dressed my hair as yours is dressed, and I put on your clothes, I’ll warrant I could impersonate you so that many would be deceived.”
“I am sure you could.”
“And you could impersonate me, Seton. Who could know me better than you? When I have gone you could take to my bed for a day or so—and nothing would be discovered.”
Jane Kennedy said, “We could rehearse it. It is so simple. I know it would succeed.”
“I wonder,” put in Seton, “why Your Majesty did not at once agree to the plan.”
“You have forgotten, Seton, that I am affianced to the Duke of Norfolk. I could not agree to do this until I had consulted him.”
There was silence. Then Seton asked: “You think it is wise to commit this plan to paper?”
“As you know, I write to him in code. As my affianced husband I could not dream of acting without his approval. But I will write to him now and my letter shall be taken to him with all speed. Seton, bring my writing materials, and we will not have a moment’s delay.”
BESS FUMED about the Manor. She was ready to leave for Buxton, but there was no answer to the request she had made to the Queen.
Bess believed it imperative that the Earl should be removed from Wingfield, for as he grew better his worries were returning and she was not going to risk another attack which, she was well aware, could be fatal.
She had explained the details of her husband’s illness to Elizabeth, but it seemed that the Queen believed that the task she had assigned to Shrewsbury was more important than his life.
She is wrong there! Bess told herself. Queen or no Queen, I shall not stand by and see poor Shrewsbury suffer such another attack which will doubtless kill him or leave him an invalid for the rest of his life. We are going to Buxton.
Bess went to the window, as she did every few minutes, to see if there were any signs of the Queen’s messenger. She clenched her fist in anger. No sign of a rider!
She summoned certain of her servants.
“We are leaving for Buxton this day,” she told them. “Have all made ready for our departure.”
She then made her way to the Earl’s bedchamber where he was lying on his bed, still very weak.
“All is well,” she told him. “We are leaving for Buxton.”
“So . . . she has given her consent? Oh, Bess, you are indeed a wonderful woman. When I think of the way she behaved toward Knollys.”
Bess smiled complacently. To tell him the truth would very likely bring on another attack. The thing she must do was get Shrewsbury well and then consider how they would meet the Queen’s anger.
“I told you you had only to leave matters to me,” she said. “Now your servants are coming to prepare you for the journey. We could leave within the hour.” She laughed. “You will want to say farewell to your dear Queen, so the preparations should start without delay. I will leave you now because there is so much to do.”
THE EARL AND COUNTESS had taken their leave of Mary who stood at her window watching their departure. She could hear the Countess’s authoritative voice giving orders. The guards had been put on their mettle. On pain of death they were to guard the Queen of Scots until her new keeper arrived, which would be ere long. In the meantime all was to go on at the Manor as if the Earl and Countess were in residence.
The Earl was placed in a litter because he was too weak to ride, and as he was being carried away from the Manor he looked back and, from the group of servants watching, he picked out one desolate figure. Little Eleanor Britton was sadly watching his departure.
So the Shrewsburys left for Buxton, the strong-minded Bess alone being aware that they did so without Elizabeth’s consent.
THERE WAS ALERTNESS in Mary’s apartments. No guardian had been sent to take the place of the Shrewsburys and it was inevitable that rules were relaxed with the absence of the sharp-eyed Bess. Never had there been such ideal conditions for escape. Dacre called. The time was now, he insisted. Why delay? With each passing hour their plans could become more difficult to carry out.
“I will give you my answer very soon,” Mary told him.
This she was able to do, for Norfolk had answered her letter as soon as he received it and had commanded his messenger to take his reply to the Queen without delay.
Certainly she must not fall in with this scheme which Dacre was proposing, he wrote. It would be the utmost folly, for Dacre’s one idea was to take her out of England to Flanders or Spain—either to the Duke of Alva or King Philip—and the plan was to marry her to Don Jon of Austria.
Norfolk explained that Dacre was no friend of his on account of a dispute between them concerning the rights of the late Lord Dacre’s daughter to inherit the family wealth, and that Dacre’s aim was not so much to aid her as to foil the plans for that marriage to which both he, Norfolk, and she, the Queen of Scots, were pledged in secret.
When Dacre next called at the manor, Mary told him that she had been in touch with Norfolk to whom she was affianced and that he advised her not to attempt to escape.
Dacre found it difficult to hide his chagrin; and his hatred for Norfolk intensified.
Mary was however disturbed to learn of the discord between him and Norfolk and asked him for details. With much bitterness Dacre told her how he had, in his opinion, more right to the family fortune than his nieces who, through their betrothal to Norfolk’s sons, would allow the Dacre wealth to pass to Norfolk’s family.
Mary was sympathetic. “It certainly seems unjust,” she said. “Will you allow me to write to the Duke and give him my opinion? I am sure he would listen to me, and it would give me great pleasure to bring about some agreement between you.”
Dacre smiled ruefully. “Your Majesty must do as you wish. But I would warn you that Norfolk is a hard man where lands and wealth are concerned.”
“I believe that he will wish to do what is right,” replied Mary; and because she knew that she had deeply disappointed Dacre, she determined to persuade Norfolk to make some concessions to his benefit.
WHEN ELIZABETH HEARD that the Shrewsburys had left for Buxton without her consent she was very angry, and had they been on the spot would have committed them to the Tower without delay.
As they were out of reach she immediately commissioned Walter Devereux, Viscount Hereford, to go to Wingfield Manor to take charge of the Queen of Scots. She wrote to Buxton telling the Shrewsburys to return at once to Wingfield Manor where they would find Hereford installed; and at the same time sent orders to Hereford that he was to take charge of the Shrewsburys who were to be as much his prisoners as the Queen of Scots.
When Bess received the Queen’s instructions, she knew that she would have to tell her husband what she had done. But this did not perturb her as much as it would have done previously, for the baths and air of Buxton had done a great deal to restore the Earl to health; and, removed as he was from the anxieties of Wingfield, he had, as Bess had prognosticated, rapidly recovered.
She gently broke the news to him.
“Here are orders from the Queen,” he said. “I fancy she is somewhat displeased with us.”
“But why so?”
Bess laughed. “Because, my lord, we are at Buxton.”
“But she gave her permission.”
Bess shook her head.
“Bess! You mean that you . . . ”
“It was very necessary. Had I not done so, my dear George, you would not be alive today.”
“But . . . to desert Wingfield . . . without her permission!”
“If it is a matter of disobeying my Queen or losing my husband,” retorted Bess, “I choose the former. Now there is no need to become agitated. I know Elizabeth and she knows me. If we were on the spot she would be so furious with us that we might tremble for our heads. But we are not on the spot. And she knows that had she been in my place she would have done the same. We are alike in some ways and understand each other. Why, we even share the same name. This matter which angers her now will amuse her in a few days. We need time. You will write to her and so will I. We will tell her . . . in detail . . . how ill you have been, that your life was in danger, and that I considered it essential for you to leave Wingfield when you did. We left the Queen of Scots well guarded. No ill has come to her because of my decision; and great good has come to us. Now . . . write. And I will do the same.”